


valentine: to you, from the square root of negative one

by khalasaar



Category: Girl Meets World
Genre: F/F, F/M, thats literally it there's like 4 characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:08:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6078777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khalasaar/pseuds/khalasaar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s June when Riley comes back, waving the sun out of her face, peeling the heat off her skin, the flyer tight in her hand, the one that says: <em>Squaring the Circle, Maya Hart, June 12-28.</em> The one that came in the mail last week. </p><p>It’s a love letter without saying anything. No name, no explanation. But Riley knows that squaring a circle is just as impossible as the square root of negative one.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Experiences with a long, difficult love, as explained by math.</p>
            </blockquote>





	valentine: to you, from the square root of negative one

**Author's Note:**

> 8 weeks later, GIRL, finally.
> 
> reading this fic I suggest an open mind, a little bit of math knowledge, and a guide to the language of flowers cause y'all KNOW how I love my subtext.
> 
> :) more notes at bottom. i love you guys!

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“Yes, Mom,” Riley laughs. Her parents have been coddling her relentlessly for the past few months, and in her head, she’s thanking God that this will be the last time this question will be asked. The onslaught of interrogation has been relentless ever since her 9th grade schedule came in the mail and cemented the fact that she’d be going off to high school. A solid month of her guardians in a downward spiral of denial and sentimentality.

Well. Cory, at least.

But Riley’s not a kid anymore - or at least, that's what she keeps insisting to her parents. She’s a ninth grader! With responsibilities, a cool binder, pens filled with blue glitter. A real high schooler. 

With, like, a billion classes. (Damn.)

It seems impossible, the whole “high school” thing, even now that they’re parked in front of the building. All the confidence and excitement Riley’s been feeling has been replaced by a fizzling anxiety. She doesn’t _feel_ like a ninth grader, now that it's really happening. She _feels_ like a little kid who’s going to drown in all these hallways, get crushed by the waves of people, totally fail all her classes and drop out on the first day.

Okay. That might be a little dramatic.

Riley runs a hand through her hair and leans back, blowing one long breath out into the frosty air. She tries to imagine releasing all the anxiety with it, like she’s heard helps so many times before.

Doesn’t really work.

“I have the papers,” she reasons out loud, half to Topanga and half to herself. “I have my schedule, I have my phone, I have my wallet. I have my backpack. Oh! And six packs of gum to make new friends.”

Topanga is trying her hardest to look convinced.

“It’s just high school,” Riley says, turning to throw her mom a brief smile. Her head is resting against the window, where she can look out and see the new campus looming like some vast oasis in the distance; it’s all brick buildings, open-air hallways, clumps of kids in monochrome clothing on their way to first period. It’s huge. And apprehension is building in Riley’s chest as steadily as a thermometer climbs in summer, the feeling sharp in every open nerve and bone, prickling under her skin, thrumming in her lungs. 

Just high school, she says to herself. Just high school.

“Mom, seriously.” Riley kicks open the passenger door with one foot. Outside, it’s unseasonably cold - there’s rain dribbling down the gutters, soggy September-wrinkled leaves matted on the sidewalk, and the sky is thick with heavy gray clouds. Water is already beading on her one foot out the door. Riley hates this kind of weather. It looks a little bit like the end of the world, wet and dark and annoying, and it raises something in her brain. A bright wash of trepidation.

“It’s totally chill,” she breathes, gazing out the window.

It’s totally chill. It’s chill! If she says it enough, it’s gotta be true.

“Call me if you need anything, okay?” Topanga pats her shoulder. Riley can feel something thick rising in the back of her throat as Topanga’s fingers leave her skin: the end of her simple life, the end of being a kid, the end of everything, good and bad, that’s led up to high school. It’s scary as hell. It just is. And looking out at the school, full schedule crumpled in her fist, heart firing like a machine gun in her chest, it takes every ounce of Riley’s strength not to crawl back into their car for the rest of forever. The urge to give up is so strong it almost bends her in half.

“You’ll be fine,” Topanga says, interrupting her spiral. “Think positive. Maybe you’ll even find your soulmate!”

“Yeah,” Riley says, though it’s mostly deflection. Through watering eyes, she glances around at the gray gras - gray sidewalks - gray polish on her fingernails.

It seems impossible. Totally crazy. Clinically insane. 

But her mom _could_ be right. It has to happen someday. And it’s kind of a romantic thought, you know. Going into ninth grade lonely, scared, bomb-ticking anxious, and coming out of it in love. The kind of romantic thought that Riley has always loved to harbor.

Maybe today’s the day. Maybe this is when she gets the rainbow.

“Yeah,” Riley echoes, trying to hide a smile at the thought of blue. “Maybe.”

 

***

 

“Move it, freshmeat.” 

Riley jumps so hard her tray flies off the counter, and when it comes down, the snap of plastic-to-metal almost makes her jump again. Someone sniggers; for a half second Riley has to the breath to feel offended, but that laugh is punctuated by a hit to Riley’s shoulder, hard enough that she stumbles and can’t regain her footing. The floor rushes up to her face in a whorl of white tile, and dips down again as she clumsily straightens up.

The kids here seem to have a habit of throwing each other around - this is the third push today, perpetrated by the third random senior, this one a tall, sandy-haired jock who she only catches a glimpse of before he disappears into a horde of football players. He laughs as his elbow leaves her side, and his crest-strip smile glows in the fluorescent lights. Riley glares at him. The whole pushing-shoving culture is a problem for someone as willowy as she is, and even the more rambunctious of the freshman are already trying out physical intimidation: this morning, she ran into a 4’10 kid who almost twisted her into a pretzel.

Whatever. She watches the latest kid disappear, letterman jacket lost in everyone’s dark clothing, and brushes the dust off her clothes in an attempt to look busy. The line is an awkward place to be without anyone to talk to. Actually, most places in school are: Riley’s been sort of floating around all morning, trying to figure who and what to even start with. There’s so much going on that it feels like a completely different world.

It sucks, and honestly, Riley was blindsided. But it’s only the first day. She has plenty of time to -

“‘Scuse me, honey.” The voice that comes is throaty and sweet, and Riley is so invested in her thoughts that she doesn’t notice the interruption, not until an arm crosses her field of vision - accompanied by a shoulder, a chest, and a freckled hand that’s reaching for an apple on their left. She blinks a couple times, trying to clear the smudge out of her eyes. No one could possibly have this much disregard for personal space.

Okay, it’s definitely happening. Someone is totally shoving in front of her. She squints, trying to follow the movement, and quickly realizes the hand literally does not care what it touches. It’s brushing Riley’s wrist - her forearm - her stomach, warm as it draws back, apple clenched in fist. A particularly weird sensation, considering it’s not a hand she knows.

“Hey,” Riley says, annoyed. It comes out pretty loudly, and she’s not even thinking about it. The hand pauses, and Riley licks her lips before she sighs, exasperated. “Unbelievable. No one here knows about the bubble, do they?”

“What?” someone asks, incredulous.

“The bubble? You know, personal space? Six inches of-”

Ah. She’s talking out loud.

Riley laughs nervously, runs a hand through her hair. A furious blush is rising to her cheeks, so hot she can feel it like a fire under her skin, and embarrassment is flooding her system so fast it’s like some wall in her brain broke. For a few long seconds, she stares at the plastic grooves in her tray and doesn't move. knowing as soon as she looks up - game over.

She’s going to be Freshmeat for the rest of her life. The weird kid. The bubble prude. The - 

“Hello?”

A girl is standing on the right, apple in hand, eyebrows raised so high they’ve halfway disappeared into her hair. Behind her is a boy about a billion inches tall, grinning sheepishly so that dimples show in both his cheeks, whose eyes are this weird shade of gray, really light and shiny, kind of cold and airy, like well-washed denim, and sort of just really incredibly weird, and 

HOLY FUCKING BLUE.

“Hey?” The boy waves a hand in front of her face. Riley can’t really see, the stars in her vision are way too much - but she is well aware of the fact that he has blue eyes. and the girl has blue eyes too, and they’re both blonde, different shades of this incredible gold, and that the girl is standing there staring at her like she just got hit by a comet, dressed in a shirt so red it blinds. And she’s seeing color. On the floor tiles and the hem of her shirt and in every inch of the whole entire world And the boy is putting a hand on her arm, tentatively, and then jumping back like he got electrocuted - like he’s seeing the same thing, color bleeding into every corner of the universe in so many different shades, slow, and excruciating, and crazy fucking bright, so bright that all at once she can feel the word stop, start, and turn the other way. The exact same thing her heart is doing.

Fucking awesome. It’s hard to swallow how saturated the world is. Riley’s heart is going off in her chest, a hailstorm, pulse so fast it’s bullets firing. A dizzy smile creeps up on her face, and she realizes she’s swaying on her feet like some lovesick idiot, but everything is just too beautiful not to, bold and deep and so pretty it should be a crime.

Riley has two seconds to feel excited before it hits her: the girl exists, too.

Blonde girl in red shirt with blue eyes and white nails, one hand on her hip, stomach bare under a fluttering crop top, face blank with shock. She’s biting her lip so hard it might split and staring at Riley without an ounce of shame, arms crossed under chest, blinking rapidly as she tries to focus.She shifts her weight, scraping one sneaker over the linoleum, and then - like something has snapped in phrase - raises an eyebrow, waiting for someone else to talk. The way she moves gives Riley chills.

Ah, shit. Maybe there’s two.

 _Okay, slow your roll,_ Riley thinks, trying to calm herself. It doesn’t work. Her eyes are burning and her balance is off-center; it’s hard to keep a train of thought going with the way the world is swooping all around them. _I mean, I’m not gay. Probably? There was Emily in fifth grade. And then Smackle in seventh. Oh, shit. Shit! That’s a little gay._

The blondes stare at her. As if in warning, the girl clears her throat.

“Wow,” Riley says, laughing nervously. “Awkward.”

 

***

 

The girl is totally livid.

“Fucking incredible,” she snaps as the three of them take a seat in the corner, stabbing a spoon into her pudding so hard it sprays upward. Then she shakes her head, incredulous, and curls go flying everywhere - a hurricane of golden hair that hits Riley square across the face before it settles back onto her shoulders. Every time she moves, a new wave of heat ripples off her body. RIley is a little scared by the ferocity in her eyes. “Unbelievable.”

“What?” Riley asks, tentatively, and the girl’s eyebrows shoot upward.

“This?” Waving a hand in exasperation, the blonde swallows her bite and snorts. “The colors? There’s two of us? You don’t know who’s who? I mean.”  
Riley studies her for the first time, trying to be inconspicuous. The kid is totally gorgeous but freakishly intimidating, and to Riley looks vaguely like the love-child of Shakira and an axe murderer: thick curly blonde hair, bright blue eyes, freckles lining her cheeks in almost cancerous golden constellations. Whenever she moves, the tendons in the back of her hands work so fast they’re magic to look at. Riley can see that at the hollow of her throat, there’s a little paintbrush charm, dangling off a chain that’s stark gray around her neck.

“I don’t-” the girl starts. Then pauses and leans back. When she speaks, after a long moment, her voice is loud and hesitant in the echoing cafeteria. “Like, for me. It wasn’t - I must’ve seen someone else. There were a bunch of people around, it takes a minute to come in. I don’t like girls. But for you, it was both of us, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Riley says, unconvinced. “I guess. Or it's one of you, and I just got bad luck seeing two at once. That’s possible.”

“Yeah,” the girl dismisses, eyes narrowing. “It’s a dumb system.”

“You're not worried about finding - whoever it was, then?”

“Nah. Why should I be?” Maya raises an eyebrow dangerously. “I mean. If all this soulmate bullshit is actually true.”

Riley shifts uncomfortably, and, sensing the weirdness, the boy finally speaks up. “I'm Lucas,” he interjects with an awkward smile, and RIley doesn’t even try to fight the one that springs up, mirrored, on her own face. He looks a lot nicer than the girl, or at least more friendly. His eyes are warm, he’s glowing all over, and he seems way more like the person Riley was _expecting_ to get matched with. 

“Just...” he waves a hand flippantly, flashes another sheepish smile. “By the way.”

“Riley,” she says, beaming. “Nice to meet you. And you’re-”

“Maya,” the girl answers, too quick.

“Okay, cool!” Riley exclaims. Excitement tingles in her fingertips. “So, you guys-”

“Freshmen,” Maya interrupts, gaze flickering down to her food. “Lucas is in my history class. And we met at orientation.”

“Oh,” Riley says, feeling a strange ping of jealousy in her stomach. Echoes like a quarter dropped in water. Across the table, Maya raises just one eyebrow at her: it softens the look on her face, weirdly enough, and make Riley somehow more and less nervous. “You know each other,” she finishes, swallowing.

“Not much,” Maya says. “Huckleberry’s from Texas, that’s all I know.” Lucas snorts, rolls his eyes, and Maya elbows him in the side. “And he loves to be called Huckleberry.” 

“Don’t listen,” Lucas says. “She’s crazy.”

Riley nods at him absently. It’s a little hard to think. New colors that are showing up everywhere she looks, her two potential soulmates know each other, and the cafeteria doesn’t serve anything close to vegan. The whole thing feels vaguely surreal. She doesn’t know anything about either of those people, and somehow she’s going to fall in love with them. With one of them. WIth nicknames and love letters and Valentine’s flowers, the whole shebang. _Somehow._ This is a new world in every possible sense of the term, and Riley’s head is pounding with it. Everything is crazy. Totally nuts. (Plus, Topanga might be psychic.)

Maya is staring at her from across the table. In the fluorescent cafeteria lights, her face is entirely bright-and-shadow, clear cut across her cheekbones and darkening her eyes. When Riley meets her gaze, she smiles the tiniest bit, and a dimple grows in one cheek, like a flower unfurling at a million times its normal speed. Riley grins back.

“Uh,” she starts, clearing her throat. “Where are you guys headed after this?”

“English,” Lucas says immediately. It takes Maya a moment to think before she answers, dispassionately, “PE.” Riley lets out a sigh, and when they look at her, explains: “I’m in trig. And I heard Hogan is super strict.”

“She’s not bad,” Maya assures her. “I know a girl who says she’s awesome. You just have to be careful about staying on her good side. Oh, and she’s allergic to sunflower seeds. That’s all I know.”

“Gotcha,” Riley says. The bell blares suddenly, right above their heads - so loud she can feel it like gunfire in her chest. “Oh, crap. Okay. I should go. It takes me years to find where anything is.” She swings one leg off the bench, pulls up her backpack, and pauses awkwardly. “Uh. Would you guys want to give me your number? Or do something this week? I mean, just because, uh, you know, I. The soulmate thing.”

“I got it,” Maya deadpans. 

“That sounds great, Riley,” Lucas interrupts. He smiles at her in an attempt to be reassuring, then shoots Maya a pointed sideways look (one that she completely ignores). “Here. Give me your phone.”

Riley hands it over, and Lucas keys in his number. He reaches across the table to hand it back, and Riley reaches to take it - but halfway through Maya leans over, neatly plucks the phone out of Lucas’ hand and makes herself a contact with robotic efficiency. She throws it back with a brief smile. 

“Didn't think you were interested,” says Riley, carefully. Maya just shrugs. 

“Well,” she answers, nonchalant. “If I'm your soulmate, or whatever.” Then swings off the bench, climbs to her feet, and disappears toward the gym, shooting just one backwards glance with those eyes a shade so blue Riley feels it all over.

 

***

 

_Or whatever._ Unbelievable. 

“How was your day?” Topanga asks. 

Riley slams into her seat, closes the door, looks at her, and bursts into tears. It takes Topanga half a second to register, and by the time she opens her mouth to ask what the hell is wrong, Riley has straightened up, and it's obvious she's laughing instead of crying.

“My life,” she manages, between heaving sobs and laughter, “is totally ridiculous.”

“What are you talking about, honey?”

“I found my soulmate.” 

“What?” 

“Two of them!” Still giggling hysterically, Riley rolls her head onto the dashboard. “Two people at the exact same time. And one of them saw colors and the other didn't. Okay, no. Saw colors but is convinced it's someone else. Because it was a girl and a guy! And the girl thinks she's straight. And I don't know who's who. Or what's going on. And also, why do kids even pick their own outfits if they're colorblind?”

“Aha,” says Topanga.

“What?”

She beams. “I was right.”

Riley groans. 

“Sorry, sorry. Okay. Spill.” The car jerks forward, tires squealing on the pavement, and there is a long moment as they leave the parking lot - rain dribbling on the windows, the world changing as it turns - where all Riley’s excitement is newly regenerated as fear.

This was cool. And now it’s not. It’s complicated, and it’s turning every neuron in her brain to dread-firing mush.

“I-” Riley starts. Then stops. Not finding a way to put words to the effect today is having on her. “The girl is nuts. Totally psycho. Like combo model serial killer type. Maya.”

“Sounds cute.” 

“Ugh.” 

“And the boy?”

“Way nicer. He seems... normal. Sweet. Gave me his number.”

“Maya didn't?” 

“Yeah, she did, afterward. Oh, the guy is named Lucas.”

“You should text them!”

“I will. But first I need to sleep for, like, twelve hours.” Riley sighs, exhausted, and leans against the window. They’re far away from the school now. It soothes her nerves, something about the buildings disappearing, replaced by bent trees, Pennsylvania sedge, traffic lights like fire in the inner-city smog. Absently, she turns her phone in between her fingers: silvery, the case filled with pale glitter, screen marked with iridescent scratches. 

“Can we go shopping?” she asks to the pavement outside: Topanga is smiling in the corner of her vision. “I think I need more clothes. I like blue.”

 

***

 

“Nice shirt,” Lucas says. He’s leaning over from his seat on her right, half-smiling; his face is open and pretty, comfortingly interested in her answer, and it makes Riley’s stomach tingle. Feeling ditzy, she just tugs at the edge of her shirt and grins. It’s bright blue paisley with red and gold accents, the edge lined in white lace, with fabric dripping off her arms, and she’s glad _someone_ noticed. At 10 last night, Cory took her out for a celebratory mall trip that culminated in Starbucks and 3 bags of clothes, including this shirt and the pair of stonewashed jeans she’s wearing with it. Riley grins at him and wiggles her toes excitedly inside her shoes.

“Thanks,” she says, beaming. “School starting is the best way to squeeze some new clothes out of my parents.”

Lucas’ smile widens. “Cheating the system, huh?”

“I wouldn’t call it cheating.”

“Yeah. Sunshine here loves the system,” someone snaps.

Maya appears out of nowhere, glowering, and slams into the seat next to them. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a loose blonde cloud, and paint is staining her fingertips in shades Riley has never seen. When she arrives, the whole rooms chills a degree; she doesn’t say anything beyond that thinly veiled insult, but the look on her face makes it evident that now is not the time to start any kind of conversation. Riley subconsciously shifts to the other side of her chair, concerned by the strength with which Maya is (loudly) reorganizing her books on the desktop. 

Riley cuts a glance to Lucas, who just shrugs, leaning back into his seat. It’s acutely uncomfortable, being trapped between the two of them, and Riley shifts in her chair once or twice or six times before the bell rings and startles the rest of the class into silence.

Finally. Maya is done banging around her books and has settled into her seat, leaning back comfortably with her arms crossed under her chest; Riley is waiting patiently with her hands folded in her lap, and Lucas is flipping through a book about what looks like rodeo techniques. The teacher still hasn’t showed up. Riley takes a nervous look around the room, utterly confused by the tactics of the high school staff, but no one else seems to notice. They’re all absorbed in their homework, or phones, or conversations with one another. Riley feels utterly out of the loop - trapped between a rock and a hard place, Maya seething on one side and Lucas playing with her heart on the other, with not even a boring lecture to save her from the awkwardness. 

Ah, crap. 8:11. Still no teacher.

“What’re you looking for?”

Riley turns around so fast her neck almost snaps. Maya stares back at her, looking genuinely interested, even though she’s slouched so low in her seat that her feet have probably hit China. The paintbrush charm on her chest is reflecting white light back from the overhead beams, making the freckles on her collarbones look a million times darker, and Riley can’t help staring as she twists it in one hand. “Hey?”

“Oh.” Riley shakes her head and tries for a guilty smile. “Sorry. I was just wondering where the teacher is.”

“First period’s always late,” Maya explains.

“Oh.” 

Apparently done with the conversation, the blonde returns to examining her nails, and with a feeling of disappointment Riley shifts back upright in her seat.

Maya is weird. Beyond weird. Pretty and angry and electric all over, shifts through these moods like a kaleidoscope that turns all on its own, something Riley has never seen, and it’s awesome, and it’s scary. She half wishes that Maya had never showed up. And half wishes that they could be best friends already.

8:17, the door bangs open. The lecture, as it turns out, can’t distract her at all.

 

***

 

Now, Riley likes to think of herself as a persistent person.

She’s never had trouble making friends. She doesn’t take no for an answer. And she’s never, ever, given up on a person. So, despite Maya’s seeming hostility, Riley decides that they’re going to be friends. Whatever it takes. 

After getting home later that day, she starts searching through her room. She’s looking for a blue box with silver glitter - not that she knew what that looked like when making it out of cardboard and glue in second grade, but now that she’s not colorblind, it should be a little easier.

Or it would be, if her room wasn’t the messiest thing on Earth. Riley can barely see the floor under her feet. Her schedule has been crazy since school started, and she’s been sleeping ten hours a night, so it’s hard to find time to clean. Dumping her backpack near the doorway, she wades into her room, kicking her dirty clothes into a pile by the bed and picking up trash as she walks through. Under the bay window is a hidden compartment that she uses for bits of nostalgia; she flips the lid, which is really the window seat, leans over, and starts to rummage through it. It’s full of mementos. Photo albums, letters - loose, half-developed polaroids. The deeper she digs, the thicker the dust gets, and by the time the box shows up Riley is practically choking on it. 

She pulls the box onto the window seat, sets it on her lap, and opens it. Then breaks into a relieved smile. Everything’s still in here - the art stuff Shawn bought her for a long-ago birthday, lots of it, and in pristine condition.

For the next hour, Riley cleans it, organizes it, and finds a new bow to replace the white threads left on top; then she carefully snuggles it into the bottom of her backpack and returns to her homework. There’s not really any way to tell if Maya will hate or appreciate it, which is incredibly frustrating. And Riley can’t help feeling nervous every time she looks at it. But there’s nothing she can do, so she resigns herself to studying math and avoiding her thoughts until going to sleep.

She arrives early to first period, which doesn’t do shit for her anxiety, and has ten minutes to scribble in the margins of her binder before Maya shows up. She’s wearing a sinfully short tie-dye romper and black sneakers, and she slides into her seat without even saying hi, lips set in an unhappy line; Riley has to debate with herself for a second before she slides the box over, fingers twitching nervously, onto Maya’s desk.

Maya glances at her, disbelieving.

“Take it!” 

She does, hesitantly, and sets it on her lap. The lock is a little rusty, and it takes a moment to get it open, but when it does, the look on Maya’s face is priceless. All the color drains out of her face; her mouth falls open a little, and out of habit her hand snaps up to the paintbrush charm under her neck. 

Riley watches, heart in her throat.

Maya dips her hand into the box. It’s weird to see. She treats everything so carefully, her touch so light, the awe on her face practically corporeal. And as she rustles through the art supplies, a smile appears on her face - first just a dorky little lip bite, but then it spreads, carving a dimple into one cheek and turning her eyes into narrow, happy slits. She looks up at Riley, fingers still curled around a pack of paintbrushes, and Riley is floored by how incredibly warm she looks.

“Thank you,” Maya says, sheepish, her whole face pink with excitement. The bell rings, so Riley can’t say anything back, but she smiles. And it’s hard to see, but Riley feels it everywhere, the sparkle in Maya’s eyes, all the anxiety rushing out through her feet, a sense of accomplishment filling her lungs, because Maya is finally looking a little less dangerous.

 

*** 

 

On the way to English the next morning, she spots Maya on the sidelines. Or rather, the back of her head - blonde hair shining like a lighthouse in the sea of highschoolers, on her tiptoes as she pulls textbook after textbook out from her locker. She’s in jeans and a gray sweater, the collar of a translucent white shirt showing underneath, and half an inch taller than usual in a pair of brown boots. The floods of people in the hall part both ways around her. Riley battles for a second with the idea of going over to say hi, but the decision is made for her when Maya turns, spots her ten feet away, and gives her a grudging wave. 

“Hey,” Riley calls, shouldering her way through the crowd. Right around Maya’s locker is a little empty bubble, where there’s refuge from the floods of people, and the air isn’t so hard to breathe; Riley stumbles into it, and all the weight lifts off her shoulders, but Maya doesn’t even turn. She looks busy with the puzzle of books in her locker, shoving things in and pulling them out and doing it all over again. “Sorry,” she says, turned toward the wall. “I’m disorganized.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Art history. It’s blue, it’s got some weird blobby dude on the front in black, some stars-”

“That?” Riley asks, pointing to a textbook in the back.

Maya squints at it for a second and says “Aha! Thanks.” She rocks back onto her heels, taking the book with her, and shoves it into the overstuffed bag balanced between her hip and the wall. She has to shake everything around for it to zip up.

“So much crap in here,” Maya says, half to herself, as she slings the backpack over one shoulder. “I feel like I’m breaking my spine. Anyway. Where are you going?”

“English. You?”

“Uhhh...” Maya scrunches up one side of her face in thought. “History?”

“Lucas is in that class, isn’t he?”

Maya nods, hair shifting around her face. “Yeah.” Maybe it’s the terrible hallway lighting, but she definitely looks some kind of offended. Riley would ask why, but she’s a little afraid of getting her head bitten off. “Wanna go find him?”

“What?” Riley blinks, surprised. “No. I mean, if you want to, but I thought - I don’t know, we were talking.”

“Oh.” Maya smiles at her briefly. “Yeah, sure. We should go, though. The bell rang a little while ago.”

“Okay.” Riley falls into step next to her, and they start down the east wing, counting off doors and the spaced-apart blue linoleum tiles. Everything is silent and scary-clean. Almost everyone is in class already, and Riley can’t deny that it puts her on edge a little, but it’s also cool to see the hallway so empty, compared to the mess it was just a few minutes before. She voices as much out loud, and Maya grins.

“It is cool,” she agrees, her tone way more pleasant than it has been. Riley has been putting colors to everything she can, and even though the smile has dropped off her face, right now Maya’s voice is bubblegum pink. “A little creepy. I love it.”

“Creepy?”

“I dunno. People are in and out so fast. I’m so used to it being full, when it’s like this...” she gestures vaguely to the empty hallways, the white paint on her fingernails flashing when her wrist turns, “it’s a little freaky.”

“Oh, I guess.” A door comes up on the right, with a brightly colored sign that reads ENGLISH 9, and Riley screeches to a halt. They’re late, but the teacher isn’t here yet. “This is my stop.” She says it sort of disappointedly, aching at the thought that their conversation has to end so soon, hoping Maya thinks the same. 

But what Maya actually does say is, disaffected, “See ya later, honey.”

She turns on one foot and starts down the hallway. Riley watches her for a second, fighting a breathless smile at the nickname, and then yanks open the classroom door with her heart flailing in her chest. Ah, life is alright, if not the actual best. Maya is pretty. She’s making friends.

“Riley?”

Ah, crap. Mrs. Pickett is standing on the other side of the door, hands on her hips, looking at Riley with the kind of disappointed glare that makes kids wither. Behind her, the whole class has turned in their seats to glance at the intruder in the doorway, cutting each other sly glances and talking under their breaths without an ounce of shame.

Oh, boy. 

Pickett raises her eyebrows, and Riley inhales, trying to form a coherent thought. “I, am. Uh. I-”

“Sorry, Pickett.” Maya appears out of nowhere like she always does hitching her backpack farther up one shoulder, and flashes the teacher a Miss-America smile. She puts a hand on Riley’s arm and steps in front of her, the graze of her fingers raising goosebumps everywhere. Pickett eyes the two of them suspiciously.

And yeah, okay. Riley is _totally_ feeling suspicious right now.

“I lost my phone,” Maya says, batting her eyelashes. “Riley was helping me look for it. My fault.” Pickett glances from Maya to Riley and back again. 

“Alright,” she sighs, throwing up her hands in defeat, and relief punches Riley straight in the chest. “Take a seat, Riley.” Maya turns her back to the teacher, flashes Riley a knowing grin. Her teeth are all straight-white-fluorescent in the blue lights, and after a second, the smile does drop off her face - but the ghost of that happiness remains, a little, in the look she gives Riley as she walks away backward. Eyebrows raised, eyes sparkling with amusement, hair summer-storming over her shoulders. One little wave and she disappears around the next corner, totally purple, the glitter floating off of her in waves, and Riley feels all the blood rushing to her head.

“Miss Matthews?” Pickett waves a hand in front of her face. “Next time you’re late without a pass, I’m going to have to give you detention.”

“Yeah,” Riley agrees. Holding her breath, stupid-smiling. “Of course.”

 

***

 

Over the next couple weeks, Maya seems to mellow out a little bit. She’s nice, if absent and vaguely detached. It’s unclear why, but Riley tries to just let it be; having Maya at least a little, constantly, seems better than having all of her only once in a while. The girl is awesome when she’s not insane, and goodness knows why, but Riley loves her already. They fit together in some undeniable way. Even if they’re not soulmates, they’re going to be close. 

Lucas remains his stubbornly handsome self, Riley can find her way to class without a map, and every once in a while. Maya will appear from wherever the hell she hides to walk Riley to class, or test a new name on Lucas, or, rarely, eat with them at lunch. She has an impeccable wardrobe and she doodles all over her notebooks and never, ever, comes to school without her necklace. Playing with it seems like a nervous tic: she does it all through her first presentation, and when the teacher hands back everyone’s tests, and when she catches Riley staring at her. This becomes their thing, the paintbrush, in a very loose sense of the word, the one that means Maya lets her touch it once or twice, and Riley knows to help her out whenever she starts fidgeting with it. 

They’re friends. Or at least, that’s what Riley hopes. She’s still sort of figuring it out. 

But Lucas is way, way easier. He’s nice and cute and helps her in algebra, and nothing about him is complicated. He just exists. And he does it well. They go see movies, get fro-yo, laugh instead of arguing like she does with Maya about her more dangerous habits. Every day Riley comes into class and looks around for him to make sure she did her homework right, and at lunch he’s always there, claiming their table with a spot for her and one for Maya. (Which has only once been filled.) He’s… steady. Considerate. Everything that Maya’s not, which is exactly what Riley has always wanted.

And ends it there before her indecision bleeds into anything else. Before she starts getting any ideas.

 

***

 

Riley’s made her decision.

Well, more like she made herself make the decision, and now that it’s here, she doesn’t know what to do with it. Holding it in her hands, turning it over, the little ball that says _Lucas, Lucas, Lucas._ It popped up last week, when Lucas said he was glad he met his soulmate so early, and, instead of chiming in with something romantic, Maya shoveled a forkful of food in her mouth and said something more along the lines of “fuck the system”.

That’s not what she wants. It can’t be. It’s not what her parents did, it’s not what her grandparents did, and it’s not what Riley’s going to do. The system _works._ It chose her. 

She’s Lucas’ soulmate, he’s hers. He’s sweet and kind. He believes in everything. They fit together like puzzle pieces. Everything he’s done points to it. It just took a while to register.

The system works. Fuck Maya for giving up on it.

They can be friends, though. They can be friends. At least until she tells Lucas, and everyone else, that she knows what’s going on now. Maybe even a little past that.

It’s a good plan. Riley’s made her decision, she _has_ , she’s just processing. They’re going to be okay.

 

***

 

And then they hit Thursday.

The sun is so bright that Riley is blinded no matter where she looks, that Maya’s hair is getting turned to gold, lighting up every blue vein on her wrist. Her eyes are narrowed against the glare, highlighted to some semblance of underwater azurite, and she has one hand pressed to her forehead to keep the light little farther away. When she speaks, Riley can’t help noticing that one spot on her lip she always bites when nervous, how red the skin is there. 

“Hey,” Maya says, and her voice echoes across the field. They’re standing by the track, the grass that Riley scuffs her feet through a bristling dead-yellow, the landscape killed by this just leaving summer, and one of Maya’s hands is on Riley’s arm: under the shade of the only oak tree around, the ground under their shoes cool and dark, speckled with caterpillars, dandelions, the ashy butts of cigarettes.

“You busy?” Maya finishes, pushing hair back from her face.

“Busy?” Riley repeats. The whole thing feels vaguely surreal, like something out of a poem. The sun blazing, Maya an inch away, Riley’s heart slurring its song in her chest. They haven’t really hung out or talked in a long time, and Riley’s indecision is making the world seem very, very still. “Uh. Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“I have chemistry homework.” _God, why are you so lame?_

“So do I. We can go to the boba place near here?” Maya heaves a breath in. “All the college kids study there. They have good tea, too.”

Riley blinks.

“Uh,” she says, eloquent as always. And then, without thinking: “Yeah, sure.”

“Really?” Maya’s eyebrows shoot up into her hair; a smile breaks out across her face. Happiness narrows her eyes into bright blue slights. “Okay, cool. Let’s go?”

A pause.

And then Riley falls into step next her. It’s weird and somehow comfortingly normal. Side by side the whole way, they filter through the hallways, out the front door, through the parking lot and onto 12th Street where Riley feels the heat crawling up her arms like a rash, staining red the back of her neck, and where she realizes this is the only time they’ve been together outside of school. 

It hits her like a brick. The courtyard is disappearing behind them, and every step further into the city is a step deeper into the two of them: the possibility that Maya is important to her, could be, and she doesn’t even know it. That this is just the first few seconds of something lifelong. That this is a moment so pivotal it’s blinding.

Or they’re just going out to get tea. _Friggin loser,_ Riley thinks. 

Maya is a few steps ahead of her now; as Riley watches, she runs a hand through her hair, pulls up, and then lets go, showering dirty-blonde strands all over her shoulders. It’s so long, longer than Riley’s, even, and Maya has this terrible habit of playing with it in class, so often that when she stands up, she leaves threads of it all around the room. More than once, Riley has gone home and found pieces of it in her textbooks, her backpack, the bottoms of her shoes. It’s even in her locker sometimes - the one coincidentally right next to Riley’s in first-period PE, where Maya changing right next to her has inspired a terrifying and continual identity crisis. 

Anyway. It’s gross. There must be something going on with her scalp.  
RIley tries to think about this instead of about how pretty she is. _It’s totally friendly. Platonic. I do this with my other friends._

Which is true. To an extent.

Riley snaps back into focus when Maya stops in front of her, and they turn a sharp left, straight into the doorway of the tea place. Maya pulls open the glass door and lets Riley in ahead of her. Cool air blasts out into the open and raises goosebumps on her bare legs as she steps in, leaving room for Maya to slide in next to her.

It’s a nice place, but tiny - or at least it feels that way with, sixteen other people in here and Maya pressed up right against her shoulder. The decorations are really cool, though. There are wreaths everywhere and big windows letting in all the light, and the color scheme is pink and gold just like Riley’s nails are painted. Maya reaches over her to pass on a menu from one of the wall racks. Laminated, a pretty light gold color. And with flowers drawn along every edge. It seems insane that anyone would pay this much attention to detail on a drinks menu, but Riley, master of flowers, sees everything. Forget-me-nots in every corner, unwilting and blue, surrounded by blushing red tulips and carnations; daisies and geraniums peeking from underneath, slivers of their petals showing through the leaves above, and snapdragons screaming their bright colors in the middle of the page. Riley draws a finger over it admiringly.

“It’s so pretty,” she says aloud, to no one in particular, and Maya breaks into a smile. She’s gold all over in the unseasonable sunlight, and satisfaction is sparkling in her gaze.

Riley eyes her suspiciously. “What?”

“Nothing,” Maya says. Of course, it’s full on bullshit. She has to force the grin off her face, and she can’t look at Riley without biting her lip in that cute nervous tic.  
Riley bumps her, a little offended, and Maya stumbles in surprise. But her only response is: “What do you want?”

Riley throws her a look. Then says, bitterly, “Mango green tea.”

Maya thankfully shuts up about her tone and just leaves her alone to order. With nothing more than a brief raise of her eyebrows, she puts both menus back where they belong, saunters up to the counter, and leans on it with both hands; it’s obvious she’s been here before, because when the guy behind the counter looks up, he smiles at her so hard it looks like the piercing is about to fall out of his dimple.

“Maya!” he says happily, and the blonde beams back at him. They do some weird handshake high-five combo over the counter before the employee pulls an empty cup off the stack to his left.

“Let me guess,” he starts, pulling the cap off a sharpie with his teeth. “Medium-”

“Medium hokkaido milk tea, egg pudding and boba, no ice,” Maya finishes. “And this one wants a mango green tea.”

“This one?” the man asks, raising his eyebrows, and without turning around Maya gestures vaguely to her guest. 

The guy looks her up and down. Smirks a little and glances back to Maya.

 _Uhh,_ Riley feels like saying, _Am I missing something?_

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Oh. Riley,” she says, trying to shake the tension out of her hands. The employee’s smile warms, but all he does is nod in acknowledgement and write down her order.

The whole thing is grade A weird, and Riley is trying her hardest not to be freaked out about it. She focuses instead on the decor, noticing now, with more clarity, that flowers are pinned up everywhere - hanging in bouquets from the ceiling, flourishing in vases on every table, pressed into art that's hung from the walls. It's totally gorgeous, and whoever decorated it was careful to match up the arrangements to the drawings on the menu. Sunlight is streaming in through the windows, highlighting everything in pastel shades. Riley has never been anywhere like this before. It's so pretty that it overwhelms her for a second, the sheer, surreal beauty of the place building like a crescendo in her chest, until she notices Maya watching her and it all pops like a bubble. 

“What?” she asks, the trance broken. Maya passes over her tea. 

They take a spot at the corner table, by the window, where Maya rolls the blinds up all the way before she spreads her notes out on the table. They’re messy, written in what looks like six different types of ink, but at least the pages are sort of full. Riley catches something about recombinant plasmids on one paper, which is what they’re doing in class, and underneath that, a half empty animal cell diagram they were supposed to finish last week. It’s almost done, except Riley can’t find labels on anything - just the organelles inside the cell wall, drawn in excruciating color and detail. No words or anything. And almost too pretty for an assignment.

“You didn’t finish?” she asks in surprise. 

Maya glances up from her paper. There’s so much stuff on the table, it takes her a minute to find what Riley’s talking about, and when she does she just furrows her eyebrows at it and shrugs. “Oh. Sure. I just didn’t finish because I don’t get what the centrioles are supposed to do.”

“Oh, yeah. I had to ask my mom,” Riley admits, sheepish. “The book didn’t say anything.” She shifts in her seat, trying to find words. Maya’s stare makes the thoughts practically fall out of her brain. 

“But anyway.” Riley says abruptly, trying to regain control of her bodily functions, “they’re made out of these microtubes, right? And basically they help with mitosis. Like, the division of cells. Whenever the cell needs to divide they make microfibers and help organize the whole thing.”

Maya glances at the paper for a second and nods.

Riley has health notes to work on, and for the next hour or so they study in silence, demolishing their teas and a plate of really delicious garlic fries. The cafe plays good music, and the weather is nice today, and it’s actually kind of cool to just sit here, basking in the thin sunlight, in that faint excitement that wells up when their knees brush, all skin and Maya’s tawny scabs and the tingle that rides up Riley’s spine while it happens. (Makes her think of Lucas, that’s it). 

Every once in a while, Maya will get up, breeze out the door, and walk around for five minutes before sitting back down. It happens completely out of the blue and without explanation, and the first time she did it, Riley almost passed out. In the middle of writing her notes, Maya put down her pencil and walked out. Just kicked her legs off the window seat, stood up, pulled her hair back, and whirled out the door so fast the bell was still jingling when she turned the closest corner.

Riley looked around and thought _Oh, Christ, she’s totally crazy._

It took her a little while to get back: ten minutes of Riley sitting at their table, jerking her knee nervously, a sharp feeling of uncomfortableness rising in her stomach. And right as it reached the boiling point - that light-switch place just under her chest - Maya breezed back in the door, all bright eyes, all long limbs, and slid into her chair with a breathless smile.

“Hey,” she’d said, the words clipped from her lack of air, and the smile on her face widened so far that Riley couldn’t help flashing it back. Just a little. 

So, the fourth time Maya swings out of her seat, Riley doesn’t even look up from her worksheet. She focuses instead on writing about different kinds of stress, in pencil and then in blue ink that turns the side of her hand Air Force blue. The tea shop hums everywhere, quietly. A flowery buzz that goes deep into Riley’s bones. 

Maya zooms back through the door a minute later. “It’s raining,” she says, holding out a hand; cold, clear drops are frosting her fingers. 

“Oh, cool.” Riley glances outside. The sky is thick with new clouds, and rain is splashing across the sidewalks, as if the universe has forgotten it was sunny ten minutes ago. The downpour is pretty torrential and turning the whole world gray. Riley bites her lip in disappointment. “I guess I can’t go home, huh?”

“Do you have plans?”

“No. I mean, yeah. Napping.”

Maya smiles at her briefly. “You can use me as a pillow if you want,” she suggests, and all the hairs on Riley’s arms stand up. “Or we can just get more drinks until the rain lets up.”

“Drinks,” Riley answers quickly, before she can do anything more stupid.

Maya nods and slides into the seat next to her. Close enough that Riley can feel all the heat buzzing off her body, rain-damp, the warm scent of her skin, that little dip in Riley’s ankle that lights up when her leg scrapes against it. On accident, duh. Pressed calf-to-calf, the fabric of Maya’s jeans rough against Riley’s bare skin, so solidly side to side that it roots her to the ground. Every nerve and neuron firing.

This is an accident, Riley thinks. Sort of sad and sort of excited. Or maybe the better word is mistake.

 

***

 

It’s Lucas. It’s Lucas. It’s Lucas. We _decided_ this. Riley says it in her head like a mantra, or the affirmations her therapist has her paste up on the bathroom mirror. It’s in the back of her head all the time. Lucas Lucas Lucas. His hands, his smile, the color of his eyes. _The fact that she’s his soulmate too._ That has to count for something, right? It’s genetic. And Maya is only nice half the time. And she doesn’t like girls. And it - it has to be him.

 

***

 

Everyone notices there’s something going on. In the midst of Riley’s crisis, she’s leaning against her locker on her phone when Lucas comes up, his face screwed into this painfully apologetic expression, and says, “Am I doing something?”

“What?” Riley asks in surprise, the familiar butterflies rushing into her stomach - followed, this time, by a nauseating hit of guilt. She swallows, trying not to look nervous, and slams her locker shut before turning towards him. “No, why?”

“Just-“ Lucas shrugs, mouth twisting to the side in discomfort. “I don’t know. We haven’t been hanging out that much.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Is it with Maya?”

“What? No.” Riley grimaces. “I mean, it’s still a little weird, not knowing who’s who, but nothing… new.”

“You don’t know yet?”

“Know what?”

“Who’s who?”

“Uhh. I, uh-“

“It’s fine,” Lucas interrupts, waving his hand. “I was just curious. No rush. We’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Riley says, trying to focus on the butterflies, and not the indecision. “We’re fine.”

Lucas grins at her, and she smiles back, and then the two of them go to class, and this is around the time that Riley cuts off her hanging out with Maya and starts focusing more on Lucas. Not that she’s rude or anything. But the less exposure to her second option, the better. So she goes over to Lucas’ after school, tries not to let Maya take her to class, ignores the hurt look Maya gives her after she turns down an art walk, and stays as separate as possible. Which isn’t much, because Riley has zero self control. She toes the line. But it helps, a little.

 

***

It’s not Maya. It’s not Maya. It’s not Maya.

***

 

She goes home and plays the whole thing in her head over and over, this crazy lifetime reel that can’t possibly be happening, so intense and strange, it makes her sick. 

The flowers on her windowsill are blushing pink against the rain. Riley’s eyes water a little looking at them, the lush green and warmth that stirs something in her chest reminiscent of a rollercoaster drop, so vivid that they seem unreal compared to the relative grayness of everything else. Her room has new decorations, in various shades of bright blue and gold, but the weather casts a dismal shadow over everything that just eats up all the saturation. It’s sort of scary. Makes her think of life before these few short months ago - makes her miss it and crave it and hate it all at once.

Things need to be simpler. Riley despises feeling like this all the time, ripped in half at the dip in her collar bones, with all the nerves coming unthreaded, always undecided, always stuck here at the partway mark. 

She can’t do it anymore. She just can’t.

Sure, Maya makes her feel things. But she’s undependable. Unpredictable. A freaking hurricane. Half the time, she doesn’t even pretend to _like_ Riley.

The deciding factor lights up her head again.

Riley rolls over and grabs her phone. The rain has picked up now, thrumming across the roof with all its weight; a few small candles are lit on the window seat, flickering a calm orange in stark contrast to the storm, and Riley’s phone is singing blue straight into her eyes. She opens Maya’s messages.

_Riley: you still don’t believe in soulmates?_

Two minutes later her phone buzzes.

_Maya: no_

_Riley: that sucks_

_Maya: why?_

Riley sighs. The finality of it thick and loud, like a gunshot in her chest.

_Riley: no reason_

 

***

 

_Riley: Hey. You know I love you, right?_

_Maya: best friends. yeah, I know._

 

***

 

That’s the end of it. Riley says yes to Lucas and they start to date instead of hang out, and he’s always a perfect gentleman to her, always smiling, always sweet, and when she breaks the news to Maya - her best friend now, as weird as she is - the extent of Maya’s support is a small smile and tumble downhill. 

That’s all it takes. Riley is a little surprised. This one push, and Maya goes from swinging back and forth to hitting the far end of extremely weird. The kind where she doesn’t show up to school for days on end, starts drawing all over her arms, sometimes just - forgets to talk. Riley starts hearing rumors about her, but it’s dumb shit she refuses to believe. Maya has mentioned family problems. That’s probably it. She’s a private person, still a little scary, and Riley resigns herself to not asking. Maya will tell her when she’s ready. Right?

She’s voicing as much to Lucas on a walk after school, towards the track and through the mud-smeared basketball court. Her hand is in his, and the sunlight today is sharp but thin, raising goosebumps all over Riley’s arms. There’s no one around to overhear, but it takes Riley a minute to actually tell him what she’s thinking, and after she does, his face blanches a little. “What?” Riley throws up a hand to block against the sun. He’s staring at some fixed point in the distance, but she can’t see anything or anyone in that direction. “What? Lucas?”

“Riley,” he says firmly, “do you trust me?”

“More than anyone.” 

“So you’ll trust me when I say you don’t want to see this.”

“Okay. I believe you.” She side-eyes Lucas, carefully. He’s doing that stubborn liar-face thing where he refuses to look her in the eye, but his hand is firm in hers, and despite the curiosity burning in her stomach, she’s not going to look. Not going to look. 

But what could it possibly be that would upset her, anyway? Riley’s narrowed her social circle pretty far, and she tries not to buy into all the petty girl drama, so there’s very little that gets her incensed. Excited, sure. Angry? Not really.

They’ve turned around, and Lucas is a step ahead of her, walking back the way they came. Riley licks her lips nervously and glances over her shoulder.

Oh, there it is. Maya on the curb by the track, drowning in sunlight with her legs folded up to her chest, blowing smoke rings out toward the field. She’s far away, but Riley can see her squinting through the gray clouds, her bright blue eyes narrowed into slits. As Riley watches, she leans over to her right and breaks into a smile - something velvet that spreads like cancer over her lips, breaking into laughter as she leans into the shoulder of another girl. _Another girl._ Sharing cigarettes and smoky breaths and maybe, maybe, red lipstick prints.

Riley lunges to catch up with her boyfriend. “Why did you think I wouldn’t want to see that?”

“I don’t know,” Lucas says, turning to look at her. His eyes are sharp and curious. “She means something to you. Doesn’t she?”

 

***

 

“Maya! Maya Maya Maya Maya. MAYA!”

“Christ, lady,” Maya says, turning as she slams her locker shut. “What is it?”

It’s been four months since Riley and Lucas got together, and the two of them are - sort of - back to normal. Interacting with Maya feels like walking on glass sometimes, but Riley’s getting used to it. Lucas makes her happy, and their group is close. They’ve forgiven each other for being weird. Maya’s her best friend. Riley’s seeing colors everywhere. And she has news. News upon news upon news. 

“Maya,” Riley says, her eyes huge, “guess WHAT.”

“What?”

“Guess!”

“I don’t play no games, honey.”

“Maya.” Riley pouts and wraps a hand around Maya’s wrist, pulling her closer. “Please.”

Maya sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes. “You… got an A on that math test you’ve been excited about forever. You baked me some brownies. You-“

“Had sex with Lucas,” Riley squeals.

_”What?”_

“I had sex with him.”

Maya’s eyes start searching her face, an expression of pure shock taking over her features, before it’s replaced by something almost like anger. “Oh, fuck. What the fuck did you do?”

“Excuse me?” Riley asks, raising her eyebrows defensively. “I didn’t think you were a slut-shamer-“

“Stop being an asshole,” Maya snaps, her lip curling. 

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You-“

“Maya, _what_ is up with you?”

“Oh my God,” Maya gasps, panic rising in her eyes. Her chest is heaving, and blood is crawling up to her cheeks so fast it doesn’t seem safe, turning his skin white and red at the same time. “I did this to you. We need to go.”

“Go where? Maya, what the hell are you talking about?”

Maya grabs her by the wrist and pulls. _Hard._ Riley’s legs are practically thrown out from under her she’s dragged across the linoleum, Maya’s grip so tight it digs half-moons into her arm, rushing past the crowds of people so fast it’s nauseating. They pass classroom after classroom, Maya looking like a crazy person as she pulls Riley with her, until finally the blonde stops short and crams them into a supply closet.

“Maya, what the-“

“I lied,” Maya says. All the words rushing out of her in one breath, like gunfire.

“Lied?” Riley repeats. Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. Maya is being awfully cryptic, and it’s hard to read her expression in here - all the lights are turned off, so she’s mostly shadows and those glimmering blue eyes. But Riley can feel the tension in every line of her body. They’re pressed together, Maya’s hand still on her arm, something making her grip tight and form stiff. Riley squints, trying to see something of her and not just feel it, trying to make sense of what she said. “About what?”

“About seeing you,” Maya says, and bites her lip. (Or at least that’s what it looks like.)

“Seeing-“

“About seeing colors. It - wasn’t someone else.”

Riley’s thoughts start to blur inside her head. “Um.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I just didn’t-“

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Riley asks, and the realization hits her. An incurable anger starts to rise in her stomach, so potent it’s burning behind her eyes, and she rips her hand out of Maya’s to find support elsewhere. “For - for eight months?”

“Riley, listen, I-“ Maya’s voice breaks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You know, my parents were supposed to be soulmates, they ended up splitting. I wanted to test it. I thought if - if I was right, about us being for each other, I mean, it would just happen. I thought you would find me. I -“

“How am I supposed to find you when you lied to my face about where you were?” Riley snarls. She’s starting to hyperventilate, taking breaths so shallow her vision swims. The burn of it is like wildfire in her lungs, squeezing her chest tight and then closed, turning her throat raw and burnt at once. “I can’t believe you. Oh my God, I can’t believe you.”

“It wasn’t about you. Riley, I swear, okay, I knew I was gonna love you from the day we met. I was going to say something but I-“

“You can’t fuck with me like this and - and - say it’s not about me. This is not happening.” Riley shoves, hard, not even bothering to looks where her hands go. But she ends up hitting Maya square in the chest, Thank-You-God-she-deserves-it, hard enough that she stumbles, and shoulders her way towards the door. “You can’t be my soulmate. I refuse. My soulmate isn’t supposed to hurt me. Maya, you did all this shit, you lied to me, you cut me down, you do dumb shit, I love you like a sister, but I - I - he didn’t - I’m supposed to be with Lucas.“

“You’re supposed to be with me!”

“How can you say that after all the things you did to me?” Riley asks, her voice breaking. The door handle is stuck and she wants to be out of here, out of here, out. Blind, just Maya’s voice is enough to send her into hysteria. Building in her lungs like fire. “This is not happening. You’re full of shit. You’re ridiculous.”

“Riley, I am so sorry -“

“Leave me alone,” and the door opens. Throwing Riley into the bright hallway lights and the crush of people going to class that swallow her up and take her away, while her head builds with an insane ache, Maya’s handprint still burning on her wrist and her voice still shouting out for Riley to come back, and this never leaves her memory, the way it sounds to lose Maya behind her.

 

**2027**

 

“Ms. Friar?”

A blonde woman is standing just behind Riley. She looks young and well-dressed, but incredibly anxious - playing with the hair that reaches to her shoulders, a fictional-seeming smile on her lips, constantly smoothing down the wrinkles of her skirt. Riley recognizes her from Lucas’ group work photo, where she seemed about a billion times more at ease. This company party scene doesn’t seem to suit her. But it is a nerve-wracking situation. There’s no blaming her to the anxiety that Riley knows too much about.

“Hi! You must be Miranda,” Riley says, flashing her a bright a smile. “I like your dress!”

“Oh, thanks,” Miranda says, running a hand over the black fabric and laughing a little. “It’s so nice to meet you, Lucas talks about you all the time.”

“He’s a sap,” Riley agrees. “Good things, I’m assuming.”

“Oh, always.”

“So you’re working on the new farming project, huh? How do you like it?”

“It’s awesome. The land is great, I don’t know how Lucas got his hands on it. It’s perfect for the agriculture we’re trying to do, and it’s going really well so far, like, even faster than we expected.”

“So I’ve heard. He doesn’t shut up about it.”

Miranda smiles at her shyly. “It’s cool stuff we’re doing, though.”

“Oh, definitely. You guys are doing a lot for the environment.”

“I don’t know if this is too forward, but since you’re, like, the only person I know -” Miranda cuts her a sideways glance. “Do you want to grab a drink?”

“Definitely. It’s gonna be a long night.” Riley forces a smile onto her face and saunters toward the bar. It _is_ going to be a long night - hours of forced small talk and dinner conversation with Lucas’ coworkers, about things so simultaneously hippie and Texan Riley isn’t sure where to start. She’s heard snatches of it from her husband, of course, but being _surrounded_ by people as nerdy as him?

Okay, it’ll be cute. If a little awkward.

“Can I have a margarita, please?” Riley slides onto a stool and gives the bartender an appreciative nod; Miranda claims the one next to her and asks for a bourbon on the rocks. “Hard drinker, huh?”

“I guess,” Miranda laughs, nervously.

“I get drunk just looking at bourbon,” Riley smirks. “Only reason I’m teasing you.”

“Oh.” The blonde breaks into a relieved smile. “So. How’d you and Lucas meet?”

That slight bitterness comes up, as it always does. Riley takes a sip of her drink.

“First day of high school,” she says, smiling sagely. “Bumped into me in the lunch line. Been together ever since.”

“That’s so cute,” Miranda laughs. “Oh! Oh my God. If you’re interested, I have a friend, Adam, he does research about the system. Super cool stuff. He’s around here somewhere.” She spins in her stool and leans forward a little to glance around the room. “Oh! There he is. Hey, Adam!”

A tall, black-haired man peers up from the edge of the crowd; when he sees Miranda, he smiles, apologizing to the swarm around him, and starts to carefully edge his way toward them. Riley likes the way he looks. Sort of elegant and tough, but moves so gently. His suit is neatly pressed and a pretty shade of dark blue, and when he notices Riley, he gives her a small smile that’s surprisingly charming.

“Ms. Friar?” he asks, and Riley nods. “Pleasure to meet you. Miranda talks about your husband’s work nonstop. I’m Adam Nguyen.”

“Pleasure’s all mine. I’m told you do research about the soulmate system?”

“Yep,” Adam confirms, nodding. “Used to be a math major, but I moved into experimental uxor science. Fits me way better.”

“That’s awesome. Sorry to lose you in math, though. My day job is teaching college kids math.” When Adam raises his eyebrows in a _really?_ , Riley just nods and smiles. “What are you working on?”

“Oh, it’s boring stuff.”

“No no, I’m interested.”

Adam grins and slides onto a stool. “Okay, if you insist. Screwdriver, please,” he adds to the bartender. 

“He’s gonna get hammered after one sip,” Miranda mutters.

“Alright, so I’ve been working in the UCD lab out in California,” Adam starts, voice raising in excitement already. “And you know all about their program, right? Best in the country. Over the past few years, the professors there have been studying the chemical reactions of rods and cones to see what they’re set off by, exactly. How much of a person do you have to see before they go off, do blind people possess this chemical at all, what even is it? I’m helping out with the subsection that figures out why they fire in the first place. So for years, we’ve been thinking they get set off by sight. Right?”

“Right.”

“But that’s totally not true.”

Riley’s heartbeat spikes.

“First, we took a survey of people who remembered their match, and they all said it was a slow process. You know? It doesn’t come in all at once. Just starts to bleed in through the edges. So it’s hard to know where it starts. A lot of them said they started after getting touched by their soulmate. But people’s recollections are so blurry, it’s not a viable source of information. So we isolated this chemical, pliustene, and we artificially manufactured a set of DNA to produce eyes that should’ve matched up with the instructions it was giving. But nothing worked. We had both components, we had the chemical firing, two sets of eyes that matched up and would have - should have - gone off for two real people, and they didn’t do shit.” Adam throws his head back and swallows the screwdriver. He’s practically bouncing in his seat. “And we knew it wasn’t anything with the chemical equation because we’ve been using it for ages. So, going off these people’s awful memories, we thought - why don’t we try touch, instead?”

Oh, God.

“So we manufactured full torsos with the matching DNA, full artificial skin with sweat glands and everything, touched them together, and the pliustene started firing.” Adam beams. “It was the coolest thing. So that’s what we’ve been doing. Changing the whole world! It’s touch, not sight. Cool shit.” 

 

***

 

\- so invested in her thoughts that she doesn’t even notice the interruption, not until an arm crosses her field of vision - accompanied by a shoulder, a chest, and a freckled hand - 

brushing Riley’s wrist - her forearm - her stomach, warm as it draws back, apple clenched in fist. A particularly weird sensation, considering it’s not a hand she knows, - HOLY FUCKING BLUE - 

 

***

 

Riley is not here but she’s staring at the bar, the granite counter, vision going black at the edges, heart thrumming in her temples and her wrists, sending blood everywhere else. Whole waves of it. Consciousness is dripping out of her fingers.

“Mrs. Friar?”

“I’m okay,” says someone. Blurrily, Riley realizes it’s her. She pushes off the bar and stumbles. The world swoops up to her forehead and down again as she straightens up, waving Miranda off her back. “Please get Lucas for me.”

She rests her head against the bar. The cool granite a comfort to her skin, and she lays there for what seems like hours, the world swirling, heart in her throat. Nothing seems real. She’s probably being dramatic. But oh, God, oh God, oh God -  
Riley?” It’s Lucas, sounding more like a stranger than her husband. He skates a hand over her back, and Riley fights the urge to flinch. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, too quickly, “I’m tired.”

“Then-“

“I need to go to New York.”

“What? Why?”

“I need to talk to Maya.” She sucks in a huge breath. “First flight out. Please.”

“I don’t know if you’re fit to fly.”

“Lucas. Do you trust me?”

He pauses. 

“More than anyone.”

“Okay, good. I need to go.” Riley straightens up, ignoring the rush of blood to her head. Lucas is staring from a few inches above her, eyebrows furrowed in concern, hands shoved nervously in his pockets, and he looks so good and so comfortable that, for a moment, she considers staying. Just chocking this up to dehydration. Pretending that it doesn’t matter.

But it’s impossible

“Is there a taxi outside?” she asks to the wall. “I need to go. Like, right now.”

 

***

 

It turns out Maya’s new exhibit is showing at the MoMA, a collection of pieces titled _Valentine_ that are supposed to deconstruct the ideals of the soulmate system. Riley wishes she could say she was surprised. But she isn’t, at all. There’s something gratifying and frustrating about knowing Maya hasn’t changed.

Riley is in the only pair of clothes she brought: cuffed jeans, boots, and a black silk shirt, surprisingly clean for what it’s been through in the last couple hours: wind, rain, tears. Mascara is  
still smudged across the back of her hand, and Riley knows, vaguely, that she looks terrible, but can’t bring herself to care. What does it matter? There are more pressing matters. Bigger things she’s fucked up. 

This is a terrible spiral. Objectively, she knows that this path goes straight downhill. But the thoughts won’t leave her head. Everything Riley’s done since ninth grade has been called into question, and it’s hard to pull yourself out of the hole when it’s twice as deep as you are.  
Look. If Maya notices her, it’ll be a miracle. It’s probably not going to matter whether the face she won’t look at is clean or not. 

She’s jolted out of her thoughts by someone roaring past. Maya’s exhibit is on the third floor, and Riley’s been trudging up the stairs for a solid five minutes, but whoever just passed her is obviously on a mission. A girl who rushes by in a flood of brown hair and bright red fabric, leaping up the stairs two at a time, shouting “Sorry!” over her shoulder before she swings around the railing and onto the next flight of stairs. Her heels on the concrete boom so loud that Riley flinches. Then the door slams shut. The silence that follows is startling, and Riley finishes her trek quickly, a little bit unsettled by the whole thing. Everything in this building is smooth and lifeless, and the sterility, the hush of it, is more than freaky. She slips onto the third floor as fast as possible. 

The exhibit is completely opposite, but not much better.

It’s full of people. Packed to the brim. The concierge at the hotel neglected to tell her exactly how popular this was; Riley doesn’t even have time to look around before she’s pushed to the side by some 11-year-old in high heels. Heads are swarming everywhere, bent to whisper to each other. Though not Maya’s. Even on her tiptoes, scoping out the crowd, she can’t find anyone that looks like her. A lot of fancy people in glittering dresses, rich old men, heavily-primped kids. No one she knows. The crowd is so thick that she can’t make out the artwork, either. Something like the bust of a statue is in one corner, and a wall in the middle of the room is hanging two people-shrouded paintings. Waiters swirl around the room, passing out food.

Anxiety starts to swirl in her chest like some strange tightrope feeling, but Riley pushes it down, bites it in half. Girl on a fucking mission.

The crowd sweeps her forward to one of the paintings. Riley lets herself be carried for a while, then slides to a halt, in the little bubble right next to the wall where no one else dares to push in. There is some peace in that.

The room quiets down a little, along with Riley’s heartbeat as she glances over the painting. It’s a lot of red and pink, with splashes of gold here and there: a girl in a red dress thrown out across a bed, pouring sunlight from her hair while clouds gather outside the window. It makes the whole room glow a faint pink where the light reflects. There’s a vase of flowers on the bedside table, snapdragons clutched in the girl’s hand, her teeth gleaming in a wide smile. The paint is messy and so thick it sticks off the canvas in chunks.

The placard reads: _Valentine: to you, from the square root of negative one._

Riley stares at it for a long time. It’s turning on some light switch in her head. 

Didn’t they learn this in calculus? The square root of negative one doesn’t exist. It’s impossible. It produces an imaginary number - the kind of dumb math property that makes no sense and frustrates Riley’s very stubborn brain. Riley can’t recall what it is right now, but they have a name for this number, even though it doesn’t exist. They coddle this impossible number. They give it names. A sense of being. It doesn’t exist, but we make it so, the mathematicians, scientists, people across the world agreeing it deserves _something_ even though it’s nothing.

Riley is looking blankly at this plaque and thinking it’s prettier than the painting. Thinking that it’s emptying something from inside of her. And filling something else. A smile is forming at the edge of her lips. And:

“Riley?”

_Here we are,_ she thinks, too stunned to turn around. Not wanting to at all.

But does, anyway.

“Hey, negative one,” she says.

And Maya blanches.

“Hi,” she counters, bitterly. Eyes hard in her face like gems. Riley can read the tension rippling off her - arms crossed defensively under her chest, all the lines of her body stiff, pulse ticking in her throat. The overhead lights make her eyes look black. Amazon warrior type of stance. And somehow, looking past all Maya’s toughness, Riley is still overwhelmed by the weight of her feelings.

“Sorry,” she says. Swallows past the lump in her throat. “We should talk. Huh?”

“Yeah,” Maya observes, and she sounds vaguely disappointed. “I guess, valentine.”

 

***

 

Not much has changed. Well, okay. Besides a lot. 

Superficially, not much has changed. Maya’s go-to place is still a burger shop instead of a coffee house, and she still orders tuna melts, and her hair is the same color, and her eyes could still spark a brush fire. But they’re not fifteen anymore. Maya’s wearing four-inch heels and has a tattoo lining her shoulderblade, and when her phone rings, she has to explain to Riley, “My fiance,” and Riley is mature enough to pretend that’s not breaking her heart. Maya bites her lip as she talks and signs off with an “I love you”. And they’re not fifteen. 

They’re not teenagers anymore, and when Maya says _I love you_ , she’s got to mean it. She’s got to have some girl on the other end hanging onto her every word. She’s got to believe it, to have this place in her heart that is old now, and somehow cares for this - for - for whoever it is. It’s not like in high school, and this is not the kind of relationship that you can just throw down the drain. There’s a ring on Maya’s finger. There’s a ring with a billion promises in it.

Riley _has_ to remember this. The world will end if she doesn’t.

They take a corner table. Again. Vaguely, Riley wonders if this is one of Maya’s things: corner tables, open windows, sullen silence. She doesn’t talk when they sit down. Just takes a long sip of her coke, gratingly loud as it filters through her teeth, and waits for Riley to start.

It’s severely uncomfortable. Even though Riley knows she kind of deserves it.

“That painting,” she starts, swallowing. “Is that mine?”

“It’s mine,” Maya corrects, without a moment of hesitation. Indignation flames in her eyes.

“You know what I meant,” Riley says, fighting tears, and she hates the way her voice sounds - thick like this, and impossibly loud, in fact, fucking rude, for someone who’s messed up so bad.

Maya twists her engagement ring. 

This is not an accidental move.

“It’s still mine,” Maya says, twisting the ring faster, looking vaguely uncomfortable. She glances upward, so that Riley can see the flecks of mascara settled under her eyes. “Even if it was about  
you.”

“Was?”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Riley.” 

Ouch. Okay. Ouch.

“That’s the only thing you’re going to talk about,” Maya snaps, her eyes narrowing, the heat rising to her cheeks, “that fucking painting, if it’s about you or not. That’s it?”

“No. No, no, Maya, I promise. That’s not it.”

“Then what it is it?”

“I was wrong.”

 _I was wrong._ The release of it heavy, and dangerous, and a huge, huge relief. In the aftermath of this, like the strange and ethereal silence of a chemical explosion, Maya goes so quiet, it feels like the whole world has stopped.

“About what?” she asks, like it isn’t already obvious.

“About us,” Riley answers. More specifically: “About Lucas being my soulmate. About not giving you a chance. About trusting my gut. Not kissing you. Never even trying to. I regret that. I have for a long time.” Staring at the table, she fights the urge to look up at Maya’s expression. “This whole thing really sucks, Maya, I know. I’m sorry.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Bullshit,” Maya snaps.

“Excuse me?”

“Bullshit,” Maya repeats, her hackles rising - and for these few brief moments, Riley is totally, completely, fucking terrified of her. “Total fucking bullshit.” Her eyes narrow, hot with tears, and it’s somehow a little scarier than if she hadn’t been crying. “If you were sorry, you would’ve called me sometime in the last - what - ten years? I haven’t heard from you in _forever._ You don’t regret shit. If something hadn’t changed your mind, you wouldn’t have talked to me since the day you died. You want this perfect life, you want the person you love to love you back, you want to follow all the rules, and I couldn’t do that for you. Fucking sue me.” Maya slams back in her chair. “Don’t lie to me. I know you better than that.”

Somehow, she does. After ten years. Better than Lucas, maybe.

Riley curls her hands into fists. Rain is still dripping onto the sidewalks outside, but it’s so dark that she can’t see out anymore, just the cold white halos of streetlights and rushing cars. Maya is lit from one side only, half her face in sharp and angry relief, the other in shadow. There are bags under her eyes and a split in the middle of her lip. The air conditioning is relentless on Riley’s legs. And this can’t really be happening. 

“Maya,” she says, voice breaking, and runs a hand through her hair. 

“Tell me what happened,” Maya interrupts. Her voice is quiet and surprisingly steady, and she observes Riley with a sudden calmness, from far away as she leans back in her chair. “Now. Tell me why you came here?”

Riley swallows.

“I have this friend,” she starts, then shakes her head. “Friend of a friend. Of a friend. Who does uxor research on the west coast. And he found out that you have to touch someone before the chemicals in your rods and cones kick in, which means it was - that I - that you’re my soulmate. You remember, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Maya says, blankly. “Apples.”

“Yeah.” Riley smiles faintly. “Um, so. I was wrong. I don’t know. I didn’t think I liked girls, and I didn’t know if we were getting along. Lucas and I are so much alike, I just assumed it was him. Which, I know, bitch move, and you don’t know how sorry I am, but I was so confused, Maya, and I couldn’t believe you lied to me. I get it, now. I thought that my soulmate was someone who was never gonna do something like that, or hurt me, and we were gonna click all at once, which is kinda what happened to Lucas, but obviously doesn’t mean shit. I didn’t know. Maya, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Maya’s eyes are trained on the table, her lashes lazy-fluttering, and Riley can track the lines of her breath as she exhales, some soft and romantic kind of a sigh. She looks like Riley just beat her down a hundred years.

“You should be,” Maya says, grinding her teeth.

Riley doesn't know what she expected, but it wasn't that. 

Maya is - out of it. Done with her. Running her tongue around her teeth, taking a bite of tuna melt, acting like those three words didn't just close a hundred different doors. 

“Maya,” Riley tries, swallowing the urgency, “I- please. We can fix this. I- I'm - smarter now, and I think I love you, and I think I know what I'm doing.” She sucks in a breath crackling with tears.  
Every atom in her body is winding up with electricity and desperation, with the knowledge that if Maya says no - she just might die. The thought of it hurts all over.  
Maya licks her lips and wipes her hands on the napkin crumpled next to her. There's still half a sandwich left on her plate, and there is still too much to be talked about, and so much of Maya’s soda to be drunk, but the way Maya’s scooting back looks terribly final. An uncomfortable ache starts forming in Riley’s chest: hollow, squeezing - totally awful. Tears are burning in the back of her eyes. And Maya is going to leave. 

“I need to go,” Maya says, biting her lip. She scrapes a palm over one eyebrow and scoots her chair back - gives Riley a look, a sad one, the edges of her lips curving into this summery apologetic  
smile. She swallows, runs a hand through her hair. “Amelia's waiting for me.”

“Amelia,” Riley repeats, totally dazed.

“Yeah.” Maya curls her hand into a fist. Silver glimmers on the ring finger. “I’m sorry, Riley. I really am.”

She stands up, and vaguely Riley realizes that she's being mocked, the words parroted back to her, and they seem, of course, indelibly bitter from someone else's mouth. The world starts to swirl, and everything seems incredibly bright. Pain pulses from somewhere behind Riley’s eyes.

Halfway out of her seat, Maya stops and sits back down. She puts both elbows on the table, grabs Riley’s hand, and says: “Riley, listen to me.” The tone of her voice is calm but urgent, and her eyes are staring straight into Riley’s, that same bright blue they’ve always been, unwavering. “Even though this didn't happen. Even though I think I might always be mad at you for coming back like this, just because some scientist said you should. You are still an important person. You exist and you're important to me. You were in my life for a reason, okay? It sucks. But I'm glad.”

She bites back that sad smile and leaves. And Riley is not at all feeling the same gladness that she is.

 

***

 

Outside, it’s raining. It’s always raining. Never stops. It’s the soundtrack to Riley’s life, apparently, the splashing in gutters, the bending umbrellas, the screech of sneakers in wet pavement.  
Ominous rumble of a storm like gut-churning in the distance. The same scene that’s been played a hundred times. 

In this one, Riley is staring out the window - sort of watching the water, sort of just breathing, sort of wishing the blood in her veins would just cut it out with the circulation already, a thought that’s been increasing in intensity for the past few days, lodged in her brain now like it’s never going to leave.  
Maya has a painting about that. She seems to have a painting for everything. Riley’s been wandering around the exhibit for going on her fifth hour today, so she knows. They’re all a little similar in color scheme, and lighting, but the subjects are blindingly different. Girl thrown out on the bed in a red dress, a wedding ring tinged red like their friendship rings used to be, red lips and spit-wet lollipop, red nails stark against the flat of cheekbones stippled with golden freckles. All pretty. All thick with smashed up chunks of paint. Glossy, rich, painful.

That first painting sticks in her head the most. Google tells her that the square root of negative one is called _I._

Maya could have loved her so well.

 

**2035**

 

It’s June when Riley comes back, waving the sun out of her face, peeling the heat off her skin, the flyer tight in her hand, the one that says: _Squaring the Circle, Maya Hart, June 12-28._ The one that came in the mail last week. 

It’s a love letter without saying anything. No name, no explanation. But Riley knows that squaring a circle is just as impossible as the square root of negative one.

 

***

 

“I never liked math,” Maya admits, licking the ice cream off her spoon. “In school. But by itself, I think it’s cool. And I know you liked it.”

“I was terrible.”

“But you loved to do it.”

Riley smiles to herself. “Hogan was a good teacher. I still talk to her.”

Maya just nods. She’s crushing a chocolate chip between her front teeth, one knee pulled up to her chest, backlit by the burning sun. Her hair is chopped off at the shoulders, the engagement  
ring is off her finger, and she looks a lot lighter, or freer, maybe. Her skin is dark gold from the sun. She has no makeup on. Her legs and freckles are showing out of a pair of paint-stained shorts. When she notices Riley watching, she turns and half-smiles, her eyelashes sun-bleached, squinting in the glare, teeth flashing in a smirk. 

“C’mere,” she says, pulls Riley in by the chin, kisses her. Rainbow sherbert is still on her tongue. “How’d you know this meant what it meant?”

Riley shrugs. “I know you, I guess. You like math in your art, because of me. You like impossible things. And I remember a lot of calculus.”

“I didn’t think I’d be strong enough to just tell you. I’m glad you figured it out. Smartass.”

“Says you, Miss Negative One.”

“Whatever.” Maya bites back a smile. Then it drops off her face. “I’m sorry.”

“I think we were both a little stupid.”

“Agreed.”

“But still.”

“Still,” Maya grins. Her eyes are sparkling. 

“What made you change your mind?”

“I never changed it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I loved you,” Maya says simply. “A lot. Well, love. But I was filling a void with the engagement. I knew I was right. From the day we met. I just wanted to get around it, after what happened to my parents. And I guess the system works, because I couldn’t. But nothing changed. I just didn’t want to give you the satisfaction when you came back at first, I wasn’t ready to forgive you, it wasn’t the right time.”

“Aha!” Riley exclaims. “You admit it. The system works.”

“Don’t push it, Matthews.”

“So are you mad still?”

Maya pauses. “Kinda.” She looks down at her ice cream, then back at Riley, placid. “I think I have a right to be, too. You made mistakes, big ones. And I don’t want you to be mad at me for that, cause I know I did some shitty stuff, too, and we can both be mad, and we’re going to get over it and love each other anyway.”

“That sounds like squaring a circle,” Riley says, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” Maya laughs. “Nothing like squaring a circle. As easy as circling a circle. For us, I hope.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then we square it, I guess,” Maya says. She shrugs and knocks their knees together. “Can’t be that hard.”

“Square root of negative one love you,” Riley answers.

“Fucking dork,” Maya laughs, beaming - kisses her again, and the impossibility of it is incredible.

 

***

 

Maya could love her so well. Turns out, she does already.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked this and it turned out as well as i think it did. fingers super crossed. and sorry I haven't updated in a while! have this big-ass chunk of fic to compensate.
> 
> if y'all want me to write something specific, send it out to philtaatos.tumblr.com. (i post lots of updates and ideas there too.) or send other things! whatever's on your mind. I love making friends and hearing from you guys.
> 
> comments/kudos/criticism is always very very appreciated. thank you for reading (& for those of you that have been around for a while, sticking with me). have a lovely 2016. i love you! :)


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